Duke looks away, over his shoulder, and then whips his head around to look at her and grin. Even though she’s expecting it, it still unnerves a part of her. His cool blue irises, his strong, Roman nose, the way he can speak with the subtlest of expressions – it’s all too much. No one human should be that attractive. And his skin? It’s like the man doesn’t have pores. Where does his sweat go?

‘How’s your …’ he says, dropping his voice to a suggestive lilt. ‘Sausage? Everything you hoped for, little lady?’

Evie chews and rolls her eyes at the same time. Everything is just so ridiculous that it’s actually not hard to slip into the role of woman-falling-in-love-with-him, because it’s like an out-of-body experience. Not so long ago she boarded a flight to Europe as regular old Evie Bird, and now she’s playing for the international cameras. Not that she can spot them. When he talks to her like that – playful and silly – it would be very easy to think this was real. She has to keep her wits about her.

‘I can see why they don’t let you write the scripts,’ she jokes. ‘Your dialogue is very clunky.’

‘Hey!’ Duke laughs. ‘Don’t knock my dreams!’

Evie uses a napkin to wipe her mouth. She could eat more, now. The fairground food isn’t filling her up, it’s opening a void in her that asks for more and more. She wants those little hash brown pancakes, too – Kartoffelpuffer? Is that what they’re called? – and she’s seen people with little bowls of mushrooms in some sort of white, garlicky-looking sauce. She wouldn’t mind that, as well.

‘I could eat a horse,’ she announces. ‘And I smell garlic. Let’s follow my nose.’

‘God,’ Duke says. ‘The way you say that is enough to tempt me, too. It’s erotic, the way you talk about Knoblauch.’

‘Don’t mock me,’ Evie warns. ‘Not when there’s food involved.’

They meander through the crowds some more, making idle chit-chat until Evie forgets once again that this is all manufactured, all just for show. In a strange way it’s actually fun, looking at the little stalls selling salt lamps and decorations, traditional treats and wooden games. In fact, she can’t remember the last time she did something like this – wore lipstick, laughed with a man. Her last date was years ago, real or fake. She’d thought she’d been fine with that, but there’s a stirring in her lower pelvis, an awakening.

‘Oh my God, look!’ she cries, pointing at a merry-go-round. ‘It’s so cheesy.’ She chuckles. ‘Shall we? I can just imagine – getting our photo taken as we giggle with glee on a merry-go-round, leaning in to whisper sweet nothings … Makes it almost worth it, getting to be that absurd.’